Fiction & Poetry, horror, Poems, Poetry

A Red Dying Autumn

These wretched windows :
the sweet transparent eyes
for this world, shatter with a brief touch.
An ache develops itself,
and spreads vehemently.
There is no reason to it.
Not that I remember.

A leaf discolors to red.
My cigarettes now end prematurely.
an ancestral curse, somehow broken.
This drink is a decade, swallow it patiently.
for the fire it sprinkles on the insides,
is a catharsis for the unexpected longing.

The dying sun leaks of love,
The dreams turn irresistibly haunting.
Come O Winter,
relinquish your malice over warm touch.
Once and forever.
There is no reason to it.


– Shashank Bhardwaj

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creative-writing, fiction and poetry, Love, Poems, poetry

End

For every voiceless sigh
I can see you, teasing the warmth left
In your palpable heart.

Its like the song of welcoming an unknown winter,
Where we once breathed in unison,
under an orchid :
sharing lies to be forgotten, to exile each other
from the warm belonging.
Poured upon us , the drop of truths
still vehemently jealous
Of our lips, who patiently and mutely
remember the arch of touch.

How close we have been, today
This becoming,the voiceless drift.
A soft touch never spills secret.
It brews it.

If music is the cupid of love
Let it rehearse itself,
Till we forget the tunes

How does it feels to be soundless,
While sitting next to you,
is the beginning of the end
and end of the beginning.

– Shashank Bhardwaj

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beauty, Desire, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, Poems, Poetry

An Echo

Sound and Light aren’t different entirely,
nobody shall ever get used to distance.
I wait for your sound, without touching your face,
you become an echo, the reverberation: simply unbearing

I devour an apple, graciously,
of the orchards blooming softly,
extinguished they shall be,
for the valley of snow, bows to no heart.
our pulses prisoned to thoughts.

In a mountain somewhere where cold spares no one,
It’s all dew and despair,
the hands who pick these apples,
have read no verse for equality
it’s a serpent without colour, that teases
our thoughts to an unfulfilling macabre.

how soon we have evolved to non-existence,
of the dream of the fellow
on the cost of furlough of subsidiary resilience.

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beauty, creative-writing, fiction and poetry, Life, Love, Poems, Poetry

The Exalted Pursuits

To define an exit,
is to summon a purpose,
I defined snow, without touching it.
It has never left me since.

In the dreams,
under the sky robbed of stars,
in this utter disturbance of existence.
I wished you never painted me as a mosaic,
as well as I do.

My hands coloring with hues of autumn, winter
and unkissed summer,
because to fail you shall be the end of my potrait.
the symmetry in love is astounding.

Thousand touches on those brown eyes still unfelt
shall yield their numbness:
an art before departure,
a history before invasion.
a cause without a purpose.

This winter ends today
the glass panes conjure a colorful silence :
yellow, a touch of comfort,
when it travels back,
this premonition of forgetfulness
shall shine on you.

Lay these eyelids on purpose, today, at least
What is to be lost? Than a fickle dream
and city made of failed purposes
with us as the lone survivors,
building cities as we forget,
what is like to be loved,
without words.

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beauty, creative-writing, Desire, Fiction & Poetry, Life, Love, poetry, Writings

A Cloud’s Alms

The wood savours its taste
Of the tasteless liquid.
Fireplace dreams
of its malignant kingdom
In the heavy cold downpour

I, rise as a sparrow,
To drench my non existent feathers.
My eyes dilate and reverberate
as a nonchalant child seeking
an incomprehensible vision.

The trees are showering,
Land is drowned in its brown ashes,
My dog peeks at the drops by the window.
His tongue is restless as my heart.

To stay, indoors
And bear the longing
Of this cold touch.

© Shashank Bhardwaj

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beauty, creative-writing, dream, Fiction & Poetry, Heart, Life, Love, Poems, poetry

Ritz by the Sea Shore

They served excellent crabs,
For they usually them boiled alive,
till their skin turned into fresh dark oranges.
Nothing tastes better than a submission ending without an ordeal.

Amidst the hullabaloo of the never closing cash counter, sun-baked foreigners awe over this never seen massacre.
The server, a lady of forty spews half broken greetings all over the table.
Her overnight dreams sweating from her eyebrows.
A mistake would be her beloved nightmare, soon.

I gulp down a dry martini and observe the horizon.
Beaches were always terrifying for me,
A place where I could drown and never be found.
Becoming a bitter aftertaste to my existence.

SB

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